The Betrothal
by AniJen21
Summary: An awkward, average, privileged Andalite girl of rank prepares to meet the man she's been matched to. Who he is, and whether they can agree to get married, will change your perspective on beloved Animorphs characters and the universe itself. Elfangor, OCs.


<I've always hated the grain of your fur,> her mother sighs, slathering on exaggerated amounts of soothing ointment. <It's absolutely impossible to work with.>

<That's why I'm so fond of it. It's such a perfect expression of my personality.> Her mother does not even offer a good-natured scoff, which worries her.

It is a rather important day, after all. Rather, of course, being the operative understatement. Risella doesn't have many rather important days. She rarely has important days, and even those tend to revolve around other people's trials and accomplishments. This, in fact, is the first day in years that focuses solely on her. She is not used to being the center of attention, and though she tries to shrug off the responsibility, her mother is making it very difficult.

Her mother groans in frustration at the fur on her back and stands tall, pacing her way around, inspecting every last imperfection and average quality that comprises her body.

<Seriously, you have nothing. Absolutely nothing that sets you apart,> she says, and Risella is surprised by her bluntness, but can't help but forgive her nervousness. <Your form lacks definition, lacks shape. Your fur is dull and lifeless. Your eyes…they're sharp, I suppose, but gray? Your father has the loveliest violet eyes, and of course I wouldn't mind seeing replicas of my own, but—>

<Mother, you have got to calm down.>

<Contacts. We could get you some contacts. Peertin's uncle has one of the most precise quantum carving machines on the planet, we could make your irises like the Stallion nebula.>

Risella buries her face in her hands and sighs.

<Oh, come now, dull eyes are better than no eyes,> her mother says, and Risella attempts to smile at her with her stalks. <It's not like your entire future is on the line or anything.>

<I really do not think the color nor the texture of my irises will be culpable if he rejects me,> Risella says slowly, and finally her mother relents, offering a forgiving, exhausted smile.

<It was so easy with your sister,> she says, putting her arms around Risella's shoulders. <She is so pretty, and so bright, and so…_likable_.>

<A shame those genes were in limited supply,> Risella deadpans. Her mother ignores her.

<Of course, Tartinan was only a warrior then, so the match was more of a gamble. A cheaper dowry as well, which left us more for you. You need it, after all. I pick them well though, don't I? He's got his own ship, your sister is pregnant with your second nephew, who will undoubtedly be just as successful as his father. And if Tartinan survives long enough to make War-Prince, your sister might even be eligible for a peerage. Can you imagine our family line associated with a title? And perhaps, with a little bit of luck, some property?>

<I'm sure you do enough imagining for the both of us, Mother.>

<I wouldn't mind retiring on our own land,> she sighs wistfully. <Running over hills tended by actual landscapers. Feeding on grass nourished by the hands of some of the most talented, renowned groundskeepers on Andal. Oh, just imagine what that would do for my _complexion_!>

<Well, it's clear that Ferentia is going to earn you a lavish retirement. So can I go home?>

<Ferentia is busy making me another grandson. It's time we put you to work.>

Risella sighs.

<Now, we've been through this, so you know to stay quiet, right?>

<Of course, Mother. A prospective husband will have positively no interest in what type of person his wife will be.>

<That's absolutely correct,> her mother snaps, <when the person he'll be marrying is _you_.>

Risella looks down, hurt, and her mother sighs in apology.

<I'm just nervous, Risella. Getting you this prospective took cashing in something like fifteen years' worth of favors. If I'd have known he was available when Ferentia came of age, they would have gone to her, of course—>

<Of course,> Risella says.

<—but I can't neglect my elder daughter, either. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. One I never thought you'd be up for. But now you are, so perhaps something even more impossible will happen.>

<Perhaps he will choose me,> Risella fills in.

Her mother, good-natured but self-concerned as always, either ignores or misses Risella's obvious tone of dread, but she spends some more time touching up Risella's face, contouring her flanks with tantalizing, feminine shadows, adorning her tail and ears with strands of fresh, ceremonial blossoms. She shows Risella her reflection when she finishes, and Risella hates the imposter that stares back.

Of course, the only version of Risella anyone will accept is an imposter, so Risella swallows her pride and tells herself, _it's time to get used to it._

There are a few hours' worth of pointless rituals and meet-and-greets before the actual prospective is scheduled to take place. Risella stands just behind as her mother gabs and gossips with the other matrons and chaperones at their community recreation grounds, as they feed and wander by the reflecting pool. They meet with his mother, who's as subdued and uncomfortable as Risella, but her mother speaks enough for the three of them.

However, no amount of internal pleading stops the suns from reaching the horizon, and before long, the chatter dies, the lanterns ignite, and the ritual of first meetings begins.

There are other girls meeting their potential husbands that night as well, but all attention is focused on Risella, and only for the man she's been paired with. This fact is of minimal comfort as she feels all the judgmental gazes of the other potential wives and their mothers pass over her body like hungry _hoobers_ roving through a sod garden. She feels them note and deride every flaw, every tan hair that lines her flanks, every pock mark and blemish.

Of course, it's not contempt that fuels this judgment. Risella has both very few friends and very few enemies. No, it's envy. It should be _they_ that got paired with so famous an Andalite war hero. It should be _they _who earned the opportunity to marry into one of the most influential, wealthy families on the planet.

It should be _they_ who were paired with War-Prince Elfangor-Sirinial-Shamtul.

Her cheeks flush, and not in the attractive, flirtatious way that Ferentia's do. No, big blue blotches fill the unattractive hollows beneath her cheek bones, and she glances at her mother to see the look of horror and shame. Then her mother catches her looking, and chastises privately: <Eyes forward, you simple girl! I will never understand how _hard_ it is for you to follow even the most direct of my instructions.>

Risella gulps and stares forward as she senses the men walk in behind them. She longs for nothing more than to disappear completely, but if she had to pick a slightly less desirable alternative, she'd want to turn her stalk eyes around and catch a glimpse of him herself. The ritual is all about deference, and submission, and whatever other qualities a good wife is supposed to have, but her curiosity is driving her to commit taboo. She's never seen him in person before, and he's as much of a celebrity as girls like her are allowed to worship, so she can't deny the urge to see what he looks like, but at the same time, there's a sort of disappointment behind her excitement. She'd chosen long ago to ignore all of these silly feminine aspirations and ideals, but it's hard to completely deflect the impact they're supposed to have.

Her idle daydreaming distracts her long enough to be surprised when the men move in beside the women, kneeling in front of the wooden altar covered in flowers and perfume and decorative flasks full of water and nectar and other symbols of fertility. She glances to her left, and sees him for the first time.

She's surprised, because she's not all that impressed.

He's handsome, of course, but not in an immediate way that she is attracted to. It's sort of like those statues and sculptures that she saw in one of her more interesting field trips at finishing school. Beautiful, idealized, but not real enough to inspire want or lust. And sad. So sad. She sees the sadness immediately, and perhaps that is why she feels nothing else. Wanting him would feel cruel in spite of all that sadness.

<Are you insane?> Her mother shrieks privately in her head, and she quickly averts her eyes, staring forward once again. She gulps, expecting him to reprimand her, but it seems he didn't notice. Perhaps she'll check one more time just to make sure…

<Look at him again and I will beat you with my own tail the moment we get home,> her mother seethes, almost reading her mind, and Risella, perhaps feeling annoyed, resentful of the years of her mother's nitpicking and bullying, or perhaps feeling now she has the importance to stand up to her, turns a stalk eye and glares into the dark audience, where she knows she's standing.

Her mother says nothing more throughout the ceremony, and though the content is as boring as any other traditionalist upper-class ritual, Risella is hyper-aware, feeling heat rolling in from the open flames housed by the paper lanterns, feeling the minor zaps of the lightning bugs lighting up and discharging around her. The perfumes, the incense, everything is designed to overload her senses, to distract her focus from the internal, cerebral tangents always careening through her mind so she can focus on the thick air traveling to and from her lungs, the stickiness of the ointment her mother applied, the sweat beading on her brow, the tingling awareness of other parts coming to life. Through the heavy drone of the mistress' recitation of the ritual, Risella feels herself becoming physical, sensual. Hungry.

_Oh, and I wanted so much for this not to work_, she sighs to herself.

She feels intoxicated as the ceremony goes on, and soon she has to stand and confront the man she's been matched to. She rises to her hooves, woozy from the smoke, turns to him, and lets him take her hands.

She frowns when she meets his gaze, but quickly rights her expression so it's neutral once again. Another sense of disappointment that she can't quite explain, but his gaze has sobered her. Whatever entrancing effect the perfumes and incense was supposed to have is erased by the serious, strange expression on his face.

<Will you follow where I lead?> He asks, concluding the ritual, in a tone that ratifies her first impression of him.

She tries to smile, but it seems like an affront to his obvious grief. <I will go wherever you take me,> she responds, and he gives her a blank smile as he begins heading to the small betrothal scoop reserved for their first unsupervised interaction.

<Just let him speak, and build his ego,> she hears her mother hiss as they pass through the darkened crowd. <All men want is to feel validated.> She waves her hand indiscriminately behind her.

The War-Prince holds the gossamer drapes open for her and allows her in first. He closes them, tying them together with feeble, decorative ribbons and Risella smells the same incense as before, richer and saturated in the small space. Oils, flavored water, candles supporting glowing, multi-colored flames floating in gravity-neutral bubbles give the place a haunting, ethereal glow, and Risella can almost hear her mother sigh at how much clearer and younger it makes her skin look. There are bundles of different grasses laid out for them—pinks, purples, blues, the colors she was ordered under penalty of corporal punishment to avoid until her marriage. And here they are, adorned with flowers, not just permitted to them but _presented_. All of these taboo, adult aphrodisiacs, carefully hidden and restricted, now splayed in front of them in such a shameless display, it's like the matrons are _begging _them to copulate. Risella can't help but chuckle at it.

<I don't think this is supposed to be funny,> the War-Prince says quietly, as he toys with the different lotions on the table.

<No, it's not supposed to be,> Risella says. <But it is.>

She gulps and averts her eyes, forgetting for a moment not to be herself. However pandering all of this is, it certainly is effective, and she finds herself too self-assured, too self-confident, too comfortable. That won't do in this meeting at all.

He seems to sense her freeze up and slouches a little bit, stretches a foreleg in a gesture of relaxation and disclosure. <It is sort of funny,> he says.

She wants to wait for him to continue, but he watches her with a stalk eye, testing her.

<It's just so obvious, you know?> She says. <They've been telling us for weeks how formal and ceremonial this is supposed to be, but now it's like they're begging us to…> She stops herself again. She'd been keeping all of her thoughts confined to her own mind for so long that she had forgotten which ones she was allowed to speak aloud.

<Well, I think that's the point,> he responds. <At least, that's how my commander explained it to me. They get you nervous, and eager to please, and resentful of the whole enterprise. "Wound up with youthful energy," is what he said. Then when you're finally alone with your paramour, you're eager to rebel. Eager and encouraged. They implore us to wait until marriage, but they don't really want us to. They want the marriages to be obligatory consequences of tonight, not civilized arrangements based on mutual agreement.>

She senses an opportunity to flirt—something coy and trite like, "and is rebellion something you're interested in?" Something Ferentia would say. But she doesn't. Instead, she says, <You're lucky you had someone so honest with you about it. This isn't what I was expecting at all.>

<Yes, I was,> the War-Prince says lowly. <I'm sorry they tried to trick you.>

Risella shrugs. <They've been trying to do that all along, I suppose.>

He smiles at her, dips his fingers in the lotion, heads over slowly, takes her hand. <It would be a shame to let this all go to waste, despite its lack of subtlety,> he says, beginning to massage it into her skin. <These are some very expensive ointments.>

She's troubled. His attempt at flirtation is even less graceful than the one she refused to indulge. She pulls her hand back, and even as she's doing it she knows that might kill the match all together, but she can't abide such obvious deception.

He sighs and lets his hands hang by his side for a moment before he grabs a satin cloth and wipes them off. He turns away from her and rests his hands on the table.

<You're probably not used to rejection,> Risella says, thinking for a moment it sounds cruel, but when he turns a stalk eye to her, it's clear he took it the way she meant.

<I wasn't expecting it,> he says.

<I would be crazy to reject you,> she says, but it's more like she's reciting someone else's opinion than presenting her own. <You're the most eligible bachelor on the planet.>

<That is what they say.>

It's almost like the conversation is clipping along without her, and she finally catches up to it. She laughs again.

<You really don't like taking this seriously, do you?> The War-Prince asks.

<Well, look at it,> Risella says. <Look at _us_.> And she can't resolve the ridiculousness of the whole ritual with how utterly miserably she's failing it, and she buries her face in her hands. <This is supposed to be the most important moment in my life, and it's like we're both playacting in some children's school production. Can't you feel it? This is the single least genuine conversation I have ever had.>

<I completely disagree,> the War-Prince says. <This conversation just got much more genuine.>

<I'm sorry,> Risella says. <I'm ruining this. If you'd like to continue…using the ointments…I'd be happy to. That's the goal of this whole exchange, isn't it? If you want to do that with me, my mother will be thrilled.>

<Your mother,> he says. <But not you?>

Risella shrugs. <It makes me happy to make other people happy,> she says diplomatically.

The War-Prince's expression drops, but he seems excited. <I know _exactly_ what you mean,> he says. And he watches her, like he's willing her to say something, but she turns up her eyebrows and stays silent. She reaches out to one of the multi-colored candle flames, then realizes how stupid that is and turns her head down.

<I must apologize,> the War-Prince says, his composure regained. <I hope I haven't offended you with anything I've said tonight.>

Risella smiles. <Not at all.>

<Maybe we should start from the beginning,> he said. <Tell me a little about yourself. Your name is Risella, correct?>

<Yes,> she says. <War-Prince Elfangor, I am honored to make your acquaintance.>

<Elfangor is all I require,> he says. <I don't even like being called War-Prince when I'm on duty.>

<I think I have to call you War-Prince,> she says.

<No one else is here. I won't tell if you won't.>

She shrugs and grins. <All right, Elfangor.> And when she says it, it feels like a curse word. Like something her teachers would squawk at her for.

<How old are you?>

Risella blushes again, then resists covering her cheeks with her hands.

<Oh, I am so sorry. That was an incredibly inconsiderate—>

<Thirty-two,> she responds, gulping back her embarrassment. <You're going to have to know that at some point.>

<I don't know why I asked that. It doesn't matter to me at all.>

<I'm older than you, aren't I?>

<A little,> he says, and she can tell he's being polite.

<Tell me about your family,> she redirects, feeling strangely more confident. <We…we met your mother earlier.>

<She liked you,> he assures. <She finds this whole enterprise insincere and distasteful, but she says that you seemed genuine.>

<That was kind of her.>

The War-Prince steps forward again, and takes her hand once more. <I can't help but wonder if this is actually the better way,> he says. <We may sneer and mock the process, but it's worked for thousands of years, hasn't it?>

Risella frowns. <I suppose so.>

<Lies and deception and manipulation comprise our very culture,> he says, <and we're killing the Yeerks for doing the same thing.>

Risella looks up at him again, surprised. Yeerks were not something that the people in her life discussed. The military was respected, of course, their work considered invaluable. Many of the highest ranking generals and lieutenants were esteemed members of her community. Even so, they were esteemed often in the same way morticians and sewage specialists were. The less visible their work was, the better they were at it.

She hadn't even heard the word "Yeerk" spoken aloud since the war broke out.

But, yet again, she empathizes more with the man in front of her than the thousands of pointless rules and taboos imposed on her since birth. He's still holding her hand, but his focus is elsewhere. Distracted. Clinging to something in his past.

Risella can't tell what, and she's too afraid to ask.

<My point is,> he continues, the moment gone, <that I fear honesty and openness is far too much to ask of you.>

<Do you think I'm hiding something from you?> She asks.

<No,> Elfangor laughs. <No, I think you've already proven that you're not afraid of revealing anything to me.>

<You caught me off guard,> she said. <If I were any better at this, I would have lied.>

<I'm glad you didn't,> he said. <I'm glad you're not letting them use you as a puppet, or a broadcast antennae for their old, outdated culture and beliefs, their carefully crafted lies and myths. I'm glad you can see the ridiculousness of this ritual, the brokenness of it. And I'm impressed that you went through it anyway. We all have to perform duties, stand in lines that we know are crooked and pretend that they're straight. It can be so much easier to scream about it, to run away, to rant and rave and object and oppose rather than to persist and swallow back the truth so everything can go according to plan.> The War-Prince was staring deeply into her eyes, and she saw flecks of amber among the vivid blue.

<I'm very impressed by you, Risella. And I…I want to make a deal with you.>

<A deal?> She asks.

<Yes. This may sound forward, but—>

<Are you saying you intend to ask for my hand?> Risella gasps. Elfangor chuckles.

<You like suspense even less than you like being serious, don't you?>

<I—> Risella stammers, trying to sort out what emotion she's feeling. She realizes that it is terror.

<It's all right,> he says, quiet and reassuring. <You don't have to say yes. And I don't want to hear any answer until you hear the deal, all right?>

<All right,> she gasps, feeling permissive emerge as her default state as she sorts through the terror.

<I will not be able to tell you everything about me,> he begins. <I will keep secrets from you. But they will not be anything you can help, and I assure you that they will not harm you. They will not dishonor you, they will not dishonor your family. They have nothing to do with you and they never will. There are facts about my past that must remain there undiscussed. I am telling you this now, because I don't want it brought up again. Our pasts are not relevant components of our marriage. I want our lives together to start at this moment. Everything before is irrelevant to what this is.>

Risella frowns at him. <Who are we, then? If not the people we were, growing and fumbling and learning to be the people we are now, what does that make us?>

<Husband and wife,> Elfangor says. <Hopefully. I know this is a lot to ask, but my intention is not to lure you into a selfish, inescapable marriage. I will treat you with respect. I will honor you, and I will adore you, and I will care for you and your family and whatever children you give me, and I will never, ever betray you. I will be the best husband I know how, because that—>

<—Is what's expected of you,> Risella finishes for him.

He stares for a moment, and then softens into something like a smile. Or maybe a grimace.

<We aren't here because we demand this,> he says. <We're here because it's our only choice.>

_But is that true?_ Risella wonders. Is this the only option? Couldn't she run out of the scoop, like he mentioned, into the night, and keep running until she reached the Pacific Plains? Couldn't she leave this constrictive life of high society, rent a transport and hire a pilot to deliver her to an off-world colony, or even more scandalously, the polar mountains, start a new life?

She'd fantasized about those scenarios for years. Since her first day of finishing school, when three other girls stood a few yards away and giggled at her through the instructor's lesson about poise and beauty. When she stumbled and tripped over her hooves during those awful pubescent grace and dancing lessons, embarrassing her dance partner. When Ferentia gave her that cute, obligatory little pout of pity the day Tartinan had asked for her hand. When she'd tried and failed to learn cloud art, morph dancing, blossom sculpture, infant caretaking. When the veins in her mother's neck had bulged and she demanded to know just what, if anything, Risella was good for.

Years those fantasies had formed in her mind, slabs of marble she had chipped and chiseled and sanded down into such vivid, realistic, fully-realized dreams. She knows exactly what steps to take to set them in motion, how to achieve them.

But she never had. She felt too unprepared, too stupid. Too scared. And here, standing in front of this handsome, heroic, slightly clumsy man, is her last chance.

<Will you ever love me?> She whispers.

He looks away for a moment, sighs. Then he turns back to her.

<I will love you as my wife, as the mother of our future children,> he says. <I will love you as any groom loves a bride.>

<No,> she says, back straight now, no longer cowed into submission, flirtation, agreement as she'd been trained. Now his deception is clear, and she can't surrender to the cowardice begging her to overlook it. <You won't love me, because you already love someone else.>

His expression goes blank, and she knows she's ruined it. She's already trying to remember where she put her personal bottle of soothing ointment for the beating her mother will give her, but the War-Prince smiles, leans in, and kisses her.

The kiss feels good and easy. Pressureless. He's tender and gentle, and it's clear his promises to care for and honor her were sincere.

But as soon as his hand touches her face, she knows the answer to her question is no.

He kisses her for a while, and in the end they embrace. He's a good foot taller than her, so she settles against his chest, listens to the percussion of his breath and heartbeat. There's no compassion in the touch; for both of them it's a test-drive, a performance, a rehearsal. And finally he lets her go and smiles, and for a moment, cast in the flattering light of the lanterns, she feels like she genuinely wants him.

<Is that your answer, then?> He asks.

_Turn and run, Risella. Turn and run._

<Yes, War-Prince. My answer is yes,> she says instead, and his smile widens, but in a way that unsettles and saddens her.

<We could ratify it now,> he says a little sheepishly. <If you like.>

<No,> she says. <No, let's keep at least that part genuine.>

<Very well, my betrothed.> He begins to turn to exit the scoop.

<Wait—> She says, reaching forward and touching his shoulder. <If I leave here looking like I went in, my mother won't believe me and she will demand verification from you. Rather loudly, I'm sure. I don't want this marriage to be tainted by any kind of scandal.>

<Except the one that's expected of us,> he nods to her.

She laughs a little. <Isn't that ironic? The only way to escape from true scandal is to feign it.>

The War-Prince smiles, steps forward, and carefully removes the ceremonial blossoms from her ears and tail. He cuts the thread as he's meant to, and she watches the petals flutter to the ground. They stammer awkwardly for a moment as they both realize that deception will be insufficient. She takes some ointment and spreads it over his chest, runs her fingers against the grain of his fur. He smears the mask of make-up from her face, and when he passes his hands over her back she feels jolts of arousal and pleasure, fake but real. By the end, they both look like they thoroughly enjoyed the gifts laid out for them.

<You were wonderful,> he jokes.

<No more than you.>

<Well, I should go, so you can,> he says. <I'm sure my mother will be in contact with you soon.>

<I look forward to it.>

<I meant what I said, Risella,> he says, taking her hand once more. <You will never know me as anything but a loving, faithful, Andalite husband.>

Risella stares at him for a moment and sighs. <Yes, War-Prince. I know.>

He frowns and shortly exits the scoop, leaving her with her thoughts. Hopes, dreams, premonitions. Regrets. The remainder of her future is clearly laid out for her. All that nagging uncertainty, threat of failure and an adult life spent cloistered on the fields of the Agric Virgins are assuaged now, pacified. She will be a successful matron. She will socialize with the other ladies, and with a husband as high-stature as War-Prince Elfangor-Sirinial-Shamtul, she will never be mocked or belittled again. No, she will sit on her fair share of boards, committees, and councils. Perhaps she will even enact some real change. Well, not real change. Superficial change. But it would be hers.

She would be a mother. There was no doubt of that. Even in the downslide of youth, she knew she'd have no problem conceiving. And she might even enjoy the conceiving itself, somewhat. Even more than that, she was sure she would only give him sons, and they'd resemble their father more than her, both physically and socially. And she would love them genuinely, and that much gave her some satisfaction, but she knew that time would not last forever, that soon they'd be expected to contribute their own sacrifice, and all she could do, standing there waiting to be retrieved from her betrothal scoop, was to hope the war would not outlast their juvenile years. Already mourning her sons, and she isn't even married. That's how certain everything is.

But stand there is all she can do. Stand there and wait, stand there and smile, stand there proudly and hold her husband's hand, and assure people that she honors his sacrifice, that she loves and misses him but respects his devotion to the cause multitudes more. And when he is honored, presented with obscure military awards and medals and promotions, offered scads of fertile, appealing land that her mother will foam over, he will spend the exact required amount of time staring at her, adoring her, devoted to her, and then he will move on.

He will move on to his campaigns and battles and war rooms, and then the war will kill him.

<Risella?> Her mother's voice. She turns a blurry stalk eye and sees her enter the scoop. <My God, it didn't—he didn't—I was so sure he was playing some cruel joke, but look at you. My God, it actually happened.> She shrieks out a laugh. <It actually worked!>

Risella starts to bawl.

<Oh no, my love, my poor sweet girl, did he hurt you?>

<No, no, Mother. We did this together,> Risella says, wiping her eyes.

<Then what are you crying for? This is the happiest moment of your entire life!>

<I am happy, Mother,> Risella says, tears still streaming down her face. <Can't you see these are tears of joy?>

Her mother believes it and begins to clean her up. <I suppose I'll have to put in an order for those contact lenses after all, won't I?>

Years of taming, beauty and etiquette training, learning social graces, learning manners and politeness and conversation, learning how to be the best wife possible. She'd failed all these skills but one, and out of all the skills she could never master, it turned out lying was the most valuable one of all.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading. I know I haven't published anything in a while, but this idea's been stewing and brewing for years and I finally figured out enough to put it to paper.**

**Basically, the inspiration is back from when I reread _The Invasion_ a couple years ago. There's this quote from when Elfangor sends Jake into his ship to retrieve the Escafil Device: "I quickly reached for the box and started to head back outside. But then something caught my eye. It was a small, three-dimensional picture-four Andalites, standing all together, looking like a strange gathering of deer with solemn faces. Two of them looked very small-kids. I realized this was a picture of the Andalite's family." <page 20>**

**So basically, my initial thoughts were that that was Ax, Elfangor and their parents, but later I realized that, judging from the timeline in The Andalite Chronicles, when Elfangor is a full-fledged _aristh_ before Ax is even born, there's no way Ax and Elfangor were both "very small-kids"-sized at the same time. The only other option would be if Elfangor had had his own Andalite wife and family post-Loren/Tobias.**

**This is kind of how I figured that would play out. Well, that, and watching way too much _Downton Abbey_ and _Mad Men_. I love me some performative gender roles and oppressive, patriarchal British peerages.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. I'm not sure what my next Animorphs project will be, but I am working on an original work that I plan on uploading to the Amazon Marketplace thing once it's done. When I do that, I'll probably write another fic so I can promote it here-there's a parody idea I've also been working on for years that I may soon gather the courage to attempt.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!**


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